In the three days since their arrival, the viscount had hosted no more meals. Cerryl and Fydel had eaten with the Certan officers on a less formal and far less sumptuous basis in a stone-walled hall in the lower level of the barracks building. Cerryl had already explored the barracks building in which he and Fydel were housed, finding it more than half-empty but with the feel of recently having been more fully utilized. Were the absent armsmen and officers those harassing Spidlar in one way or another?
Speculating and observing through the glass wasn’t going to reveal any more than it had. Of that Cerryl was rapidly being convinced. Either he couldn’t see what was going on or he couldn’t recognize it. He somehow needed to find another approach.
Cerryl leaned back on the bed.
He’d been trying to find out things from those who collected the taxes and tariffs… and finding nothing. That could be because he didn’t know what to look for and where or because the collectors knew he or someone was watching and could simply outwait him.
Who paid the tariffs?
Those who had coins, and the ones most likely to have coins were factors and traders. Cerryl, unhappily, hadn’t met that many traders, either inside or outside Fairhaven. In fact, Narst, the trader he’d begged a ride from on his rather painful journey from Hydolar to Fairhaven, was probably the only real trader Cerryl had met, just as Layel was the only real factor he knew.
Narst had mentioned some names… The one from Spidlar wouldn’t do, but what had been the name in Jellico? Fedor? No… Freidr, or something like that.
You can’t do any worse than you’re doing so far.
He struggled to his feet and pulled on the white jacket. While his room was cool, outside would be cold and wet from the spring snow flurries. After closing his door, he made his way down the corridor and steps to the courtyard and to the stable.
He stood for a moment outside the stable, then cleared his throat. Finally, he whistled.
A pale face appeared. “Ah, yes, ser?”
“I’m going riding,” Cerryl told the ostler.
“Oh, you’ve the big gentle gelding?”
“That’s right.”
“Be a few moments, ser.”
“I’ll wait.”
Cerryl studied the courtyard, sensing the age of the structures that surrounded the stable, seemingly far older than even the ancient buildings of Fairhaven.
“Here he be.” The ostler led out the gelding.
Cerryl glanced at the red and white livery, wondering if he would be better off without such an announcement, then shrugged. “Thank you.”
The ostler nodded.
The gelding whuffed as Cerryl swung himself into the saddle, then walked easily toward the archway from the courtyard. From the low gray sky occasional intermittent fat flakes of snow fell, all melting almost instantly upon hitting the stones of the street. A few patches of white clung to sections of roofs. Cerryl guided the gelding downhill and eastward to the Market Square.
He reined up beside the porch of a store, where an older man, dressed in dark blue was talking with a younger bearded man.
Both turned as they became aware of the rider watching them.
“Ser mage?”
“I’m looking for a trader. Freidr or some such,” Cerryl offered.
“Freidr?” The younger man frowned.
The older one nodded. “Son of Fearkl.”
“Could you tell me where his place is?”
“Like as I recall, not that many trade as much with him as his sire, the narrow street off the north corner of the square-back there.” The older man pointed. “His place is about a hundred cubits off the square. It be a plain building without a sign.”
“How will I tell if it doesn’t have a sign?” Cerryl asked.
“Between the cooper’s and Wrys the silversmith’s. Should have said that.”
“Thank you both.” Cerryl inclined his head.
“Freidr… a trader? Fop and a fool… sister a better man than he be.”
“Takes all kinds, Biuskr.”
The trader’s sister a better man? Cerryl frowned but kept his eyes on the north side of the street, ignoring for the most part the bustle of the square to his right. The corner street was narrow, barely wide enough for a wagon and a mount at the same time, and the building was ancient. How long had the family been in factoring?
Cerryl dismounted and tied the gelding to the iron ring set in the stone post almost at the door, then rapped loudly. There was no answer. He waited a time, then rapped again.
Finally, the door opened, but Cerryl could see the heavy chains on the inside of the antique oak. Behind the chains stood a thin woman with fine blond hair twisted into a single braid down her back. Wispy hairs escaped both the braid and the sides of her head. “Yes, ser?”
“I’m looking for the trader Freidr.”
Her eyes widened, not meeting Cerryl’s, and she swallowed. “A moment, ser, a moment, I assure you he will be here.” The door was not closed quite all the way, as if to make a statement, but the iron chains remained in place, forming an arc between door and frame.
“Who be it now?” came a rough voice from the dimness beyond the door.
“… one of them… another one… didn’t say…”
A pale face appeared behind the chains. “I’m Freidr.”
“I’d like to speak to you, then,” Cerryl said politely.
After a moment, the man loosened the chains, held the door, and stepped back. Short and squat, he wore a new dark blue tunic and matching trousers. His boots glistened even in the gloom of the small foyer.
Cerryl took in the dark beard and the cold blue eyes, eyes that did not meet his gaze, though they almost seemed to. The man was hiding something, but why was he afraid of Cerryl? Surely not just because I’m a mage?
“Might as well go to the office.” Freidr closed the door, replaced the chains in their slots, and turned to his right, heading down a narrow passageway, then turning into a small room. The trader closed the door after Cerryl entered.
An ancient oil lamp set in a green-tinged copper bracket on the wall spilled light across the space. On one wall was a cage of iron bars with heavy wooden racks behind it. The three strongboxes behind the iron seemed almost lost in the rack shelves that could have held nearly a score.
Freidr sat behind the table-desk, his arms on the table, waiting. Cerryl took one of the antique wooden straight-backed chairs, a chair that felt as old as the building that held it.
“How might I help you?” Freidr offered a professional smile, but his eyes still did not quite meet Cerryl’s.
“The trader Narst mentioned you,” Cerryl offered.
“I’m a factor who deals with many traders.” Freidr presented an apologetic smile.
“I am sure you do. You also deal with the prefect’s tax collectors.”
“Every factor must do so, especially with the road taxes imposed by the Guild at Fairhaven.” Despite the chill in the room, perspiration had already begun to seep from the dark-bearded factor’s forehead.
“Do you keep records of the taxes you pay?” Cerryl raised his eyebrows.
“Surely you’re not suggesting… You already had the warehouse searched.”
“I didn’t have anything searched,” Cerryl pointed out, wondering just what had been going on in Jellico that Freidr was so fearful of a young White mage.
“No… you might as well have… The prefect’s inspectors did.”
“Was it Pullid?” Cerryl tried to keep his tone casual.
“He stood there, but you think he’d dirty his hands? I don’t know their names, the ones who went over the accounts. They said they were looking for goods stolen from you White mages.”
Cerryl looked at the sweating trader, then smiled. “Why don’t you just show me the tax records?”
“You’ll take them. Then what will I do when Pullid comes back next year?”
“I won’t take them,” Cerryl assured him. “I’m looking fo
r something very different. It appears… Let me just say that there are irregularities in the tariff records. It would help… and I’m sure you’d want to be helpful.” As he smiled more broadly, Cerryl felt as though he were acting just like Anya.
Freidr sighed.
Cerryl let his senses range ahead of the trader as the man turned and lifted out a ledger and an old wooden box, one that reeked of age.
“Here…” The factor offered another sigh as he pushed the ledger toward Cerryl. “You can see. I’ve paid them all-every last one.”
Cerryl scanned the receipts, mentally totaled the numbers… then frowned. One was signed with another name-Liedral.
“Liedral-that’s your… sister…” A cold feeling settled over Cerryl, and his eyes felt like ice as he looked at the factor.
Freidr cringed in the chair, as though he had been struck. “I did what you people wanted… what the other bearded…”
“Fydel, you mean?” Cerryl asked.
“That’s what he said his name was…”
Cerryl forced himself to be calm, although he wasn’t sure why he was getting agitated. He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t even been able to see what had happened until it was over and done. You still feel guilty… because the Guild did it and you feel it was wrong? “The matter with your sister is something entirely different. This deals with golds. You have paid on the order of 15 percent of your receipts-at least is what you claim.”
“It’s 15 percent… and it’s of everything. Pullid, he went through everything… everything. That’s what you mages require.”
Cerryl nodded. “And he told you that he would send one of us after you if you didn’t show everything?”
“He didn’t have to… We know that.”
Cerryl forced a smile. “Would you mind telling me how you know that?”
“We just do…” Freidr’s eyes flicked from side to side, never meeting Cerryl’s.
“How long have you been paying 15 percent?”
“I don’t know… five years… The records are there.” Despair flooded the factor’s face.
Cerryl wanted to shake his head. “It doesn’t matter. There will be records.” He stood. “Thank you.”
Then he paused, before looking back at Freidr. “Can you think of any other traders who had their warehouses scrutinized in the way yours has been?
“Ah… no…”
“You’re lying.” Cerryl hated to do it, but he gathered enough chaos to create a small fireball above his raised left index finger.
Freidr paled.
“Do you recall?” Cerryl gave another Anya-like smile, still disliking himself for it.
“I don’t… know… not for certain… but Pastid… and Triok… they were muttering something.”
“Pastid and Triok… where might I find them?”
“Pastid-he’s on the other side of the Market Square, where this street is, except it’s the Silver Way there, about three hundred cubits. His place is next to a coppersmith’s-Gued, I think. Triok-he’s on the Way of the Weavers, or the north part, north of the palace.”
Cerryl inclined his head. “I trust that is correct.”
“It is… I tell you it is.”
“Good.”
“Is that all, ser?”
“That’s all.” Cerryl smiled. For now. He unlatched the door, letting his chaos senses scan the narrow passage before he opened the door and stepped out. The small hall was empty.
Freidr followed him, at a slight distance, letting Cerryl open the front door.
“Thank you again,” Cerryl told the factor as he left.
The door shut quickly, and Cerryl could hear the chains rattled into place. It wasn’t absolute proof-but 15 percent? According to what Myral had told him, the highest Guild tax on merchants outside of Fairhaven, and only the large ones, was a third of that. Even the Guild tax on factors in Fairhaven was but a tenth part.
Cerryl untied the gelding and mounted quickly. The intermittent snow had given way to a light rain of fat raindrops, splatting on the road stones. He turned his mount back westward.
What he had discovered also raised a few questions. Did Shyren know? If not, why not? Or if he did, why hadn’t he told Jeslek? And if Shyren had told Jeslek, what sort of scheme was Jeslek attempting?
Though Cerryl rapped on Pastid’s door, there was no answer. Cerryl rode around and down the back alley, but the rear loading doors were also locked and bolted from the inside. Finally, with the sun dropping over the western walls of the city, he headed back toward the viscount’s palace.
The ostler took the gelding without comment. Cerryl crossed the courtyard again and walked up the steps.
Shyren stood at the top, a lazy smile on his face. “Out for a ride, I understand?” the older mage said mildly.
“There’s little enough for me to do in the barracks and palace,” Cerryl answered with a laugh. “So I rode around the city a bit, asked a few questions, and tried to get more familiar with it.”
“You young mages… I suppose that’s wise. You never know where you might be going. Still… a place like Jellico has its dangers for those who don’t know its ways.” Shyren’s eyes glittered ever so slightly. “They are not what one might suppose.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Is there any place you would suggest I take care?” Cerryl asked politely.
“Everywhere and nowhere.” Shyren laughed softly, a sound almost sibilant. “Where coins are involved, or folk think they are, any step could be dangerous. And other lands are not near so… well tended as Fairhaven. What you would call peace is never achieved here, nor will it ever be.” The heavyset mage shrugged. “We Guild representatives do what we can, but we are limited-most limited.”
“I can see that might be a problem.”
“It is.” Another smile, almost regretful, crossed Shyren’s face. “I had come to tell you and Fydel that I just received a message from the High Wizard. He plans to reach Jellico in five days.”
“Thank you.”
“I thought you might like to know.” Shyren started to turn, as if to head down the stone steps, then paused. “I would suggest great care on your rides, young Cerryl. Five days is scarce enough to learn Jellico, and White mages are not held in near so high esteem here as in Fairhaven. While all may be fair to your face, watch your back.”
“I appreciate your words, and your concern.” Cerryl inclined his head.
After the Guild representative had left, Cerryl rubbed his chin. Definitely a message. Do you have to worry about arrows and traps? Or worse?
He took a deep breath and headed toward his room, his chaos senses extended. His room was empty, but the residual sense of disorder gave him the definite impression that Shyren had spent some time there. He smiled to himself. The longer he was in the Guild, the more he understood that he and perhaps Kinowin were among the very few Whites who could sense residual chaos. Why? Because you’re among the few who keep yourselves separate from chaos? Leyladin could, and probably most Blacks. Another skill to keep hidden… and if you develop more, they might be enough. But enough for what?
He shook his head.
As the first bell rang, he decided he needed to hurry if he wanted to wash up before the evening meal.
LXXXIII
Cerryl blinked and let the image in the glass fade. Still nothing of substance had come from his efforts to follow Pullid and Dursus in the screeing glass. He picked up the glass, warm to the touch in the cold barracks room, and replaced it in the wardrobe. He glanced toward the barred and shuttered window. He might as well ride out-despite the wind and rain-to see if he could talk to either Triok or Pastid. Neither trader had been around for the past two days-Triok’s consort had insisted she expected him any day, while Pastid’s building remained locked.
After reclaiming his jacket, Cerryl left his stark barracks room and made his way down the stone steps and across the rain-splashed stones of the courtyard. The ostler nodded as he walked up, then disappeared into the stab
le. Cerryl glanced around the courtyard and at the miniature pools of water between the paving stones, pools occasionally rip-pled by the light rain that still fell. While he waited, he cast his senses toward the walls but could discern only a guard and no chaos. Then he shifted his weight and glanced around again, as he had been ever since Shyren’s words about the dangers of Jellico. The real dangers of Jellico are within these walls.
“Here he be, ser mage.” The ostler led out the gelding, still with the definitely bedraggled white and red livery.
The streets of Jellico seemed fractionally less crowded as Cerryl rode slowly out of the gates and turned the gelding north and toward Pastid’s warehouse. Pastid remained absent, the building locked.
With a deep breath Cerryl eased his mount back west and toward the lower hill, the back side of which held Triok’s establishment The rain continued to spit out of the low clouds, intermittently, but the dark gray clouds promised a heavier fall before long. Cerryl continued to scan the areas through which he rode north and west of the viscount’s palace, with both his eyes and his chaos senses, feeling, somehow, somewhere, a slight increase in chaos. Was Jeslek nearing? Or something else?
Triok’s building resembled what Cerryl would have thought a trader’s place to be, with a small and narrow two-story brick dwelling attached to a timbered warehouse with a tile roof. A muscular bearded man was standing at one end of the wagon before the loading doors, shifting bales of something from under the canvas covering the wagon bed to the open loading door of the warehouse.
Cerryl dismounted and led the gelding toward the man. “Trader Triok?”
“None other, ser mage,” grunted Triok as he moved another bale.
“Your consort may have told you that I’d been trying to see you for the past few days-”
“That she did. That she did.” Triok straightened after setting down the bale and frowned. “Don’t be knowing what you Whites be wanting of me. Pay my tariffs and taxes. Don’t go your way often, but better this way.” He gestured toward the medallion on the wagon.
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